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Down below is a hole just nice for a small man to stand up. I reckon five and a half foot to be it; after that, his head would be popping through, and we do not want that, we don’t want that. He was fleet when the clock started and chose to dive in headfirst with his soles flat out, funnily. How we laughed and clapped. (Pause.) ‘Like Houdini,’ he said. So, we waited ages. Any moment he might pop up, a mouth full of worms, nails broke from scrabbling. ‘Herr Mole,’ we shouted, him being Dutch. Drum roll. (Pause.) Nah, nix. ‘He’s gone,’ a crowd of us went. Then we go for tea. It’s said that he marches, his feet rapping the floor, trying to walk back to Dutch.